Jadie Jones Rambles

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Mornings are a treasured time for my oldest daughter Marin and me. She takes twenty minutes to eat a cup of yogurt, and I stand on the opposite side of the counter, packing her lunch for Kindergarten, and we talk. Sometimes we talk about five-year-old things: "Mom, do you think there aren't unicorns any more because they were all living on Hawaii when the volcano erupted?" (where she comes up with these things, I have no idea, but damn I'm proud.) Sometimes we talk about more serious things, like how it's going with a classmate who pushes her around.

Today is election day, and I thought I'd fail as a parent if I didn't at least mention it, especially with a woman as a major party nomination. Whether you're #withher or not, this reality is pretty spectacular, as not too long ago women weren't allowed to cast a vote for an elected official, much less become one.

So I brought it up.

Me: Guess what today is honey? It's election day, which means our country is going to pick a new president.

Marin: What does a president do?

Me: Well, let's pretend your school is the whole country. The principal would be like the president. The teachers would come up with ideas for new rules, and if most of the teachers liked the rule, they would ask the principal if they could make those rules real for the students, and the principal would say yes or no.

Marin: Is my principal going to be the president?

Me: Well, no. It's just an example. But today is the first time that a woman is a choice for president.

Marin: My principal is a woman.

Me: that's true. We've never had a woman president before, though.

Marin: why not?

Me: well....

And then I stopped. How much can a five year old understand? And how much can I tell her without some really tough follow-up questions.

We haven't had a female president because not too long ago women couldn't even vote, or file charges against their spouse if the stick used to strike them was thinner than his thumb, or go to college, or expected to be anything outside the home.

Because women used to be considered lesser than by the majority.

Because in a lot of ways, we still are.

But my five year old doesn't know that. She thinks it's strange we're celebrating the fact that a woman is a major party nomination - because why couldn't a woman be a major party nomination? Why wouldn't my daughter have just as much an opportunity and expectation than the boy she sits next to in kindergarten to be whatever she wanted. To introduce the idea that this is a big deal because we as a country have had some serious hiccups in our commitment to "liberty and justice for all" also introduces the concept that women have been and are still considered less by some. That's a heady thing for a five year old.

I thought for a second, and tried again.

Me: It's exciting because it's the first time we've had a woman to vote for. And you know how the first time for new things is pretty exciting? Like the first time you rode your horse all by yourself? That was pretty exciting, right?

Marin: Yeah! Can I ride her after school today.

Me: Sure.

Marin: Hey mom, if it's this exciting, our silly country shouldn't have waited so long.

Me: You're right about that.

Personally, I'm not a Hillary Clinton fan. I felt the Bern - and was very sad when he lost the nomination. But Trump terrifies me as a woman, a mother, and a citizen of this country, which is already struggling with a divisive culture in many ways. Trump's more aggressive followers make me more nervous to be a woman out in public than maybe ever in my life. People are campaigning for him to lead the free world, when he has bragged about violating women, spewed fear speech regarding whole populations of people, and a host of other scarily familiar tactics a loud, white man used to rally a group of frustrated people. And almost every day since the nominations were decided, I wonder how we got here, how the majority of the Republican party chose this man, listened to his hateful nonsense and said that's our guy, or stood aside and let it happen. More than the idea of Trump as president, the fact that he has such a large fan base in this country scares me. Please, please don't vote for HIM just because you don't like HER. You'd be railing against one establishment to the benefit of another.

Likewise, I wouldn't vote for a woman just because she's a woman, and in fact I didn't vote for Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump. (Yes, I did vote.) Still, seeing a woman's name on the ballot made me teary with pride, and with hope for my daughters' future as American women. I can appreciate this milestone, even if I don't appreciate the candidate.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

My oldest daughter has been sensitive to loud sounds since she was a baby. Back then, something as simple as someone laughing would send her into a fit of shaking, boogery hysteria. Four years later, when her pre-school had it's first fire drill, she cried every morning at drop-off for the next week out of fear that the siren would begin blaring again at any moment.

This year, she began Kindergarten, and I forgot to warn her teacher about what the alarm would do to my confident, rational, five year old. She came home today, chirping and laughing about her new school's "silly" fire drill. The conversation went something like this:

"Mom, fire drills are silly in Oregon."

"What makes them silly?"

"We don't go outside. And there's no alarm. I like it."

"That is silly. Where do you go?"

"Under the computer tables."

"Under the table? Are you sure it wasn't an earthquake drill? I think they have those here. We used to have tornado drills when I was a kid, and we had to curl in tiny balls in the hallway."

"I don't know. Maybe it was an earthquake drill."

"Well, what else happened?"

"Our teacher turned out the lights. And we had to go under the computer tables as far as we could go, and pull our chairs in after us. And we played the quiet game."

Immediately, I knew exactly what kind of drill they'd had at school: active shooter drill.

Even typing that makes me feel sick.

My tender, caring, playful, imaginative, chatty five year old, who has names for all eight of our chickens (Penny, Dollar, Elestia, Springtime, Bossy, Babs, Roo, and Fluff), was hiding under a desk in the dark to practice what to do in the event someone wants to murder a room full of small children.

Again.

I was in high school when Columbine happened. For the rest of that school year, we had to evacuate our classrooms about once a week for bogus bomb threats. Back then, the idea of someone actually committing an act of violence in our school seemed far away - impossible, even. Columbine seemed like a one-time act of utter insanity that would never happen again anywhere. And then it did. And then it did again. And now, as a thirty-three year old mother of three, the possibility - no - probability that it could happen to one of my kids during their years in school feels so close and so present I can hardly breathe, especially on days when my five year old daughter spent part of her morning playing the quiet game in the dark under a line of computer tables, which I remember now is against the closest wall, making it the hardest place in the room to see from the sliver of a window pane in the classroom door.

I'm glad her school is acknowledging the reality we're in, and I am devastated that we're in it. I won't quote you statistics. I don't know them, and any search engine can find them if you need to see them. If Columbine wasn't a wake up call, if the massacre of tiny children at Sandy Hook didn't permanently shake us as a country to our core, I don't know what it will take to initiate real, sweeping change on gun laws, and in how this country treats its mentally vulnerable and ill. I don't know what it will take for us to look at ourselves in the proverbial mirror and say: there is a problem, and I am going to help make this right. What can I do to take a step to make our children safer? How can we keep weapons less accessibly for violent and mentally ill people? How do we take steps to help mentally ill people and their families receive help or counseling? And how sad is it that I don't know every single shooting victim by name between Columbine and today because there are so many. Not one more is a pipe dream - a wish in a bottle cast into the sea - and I am the first to admit it. However, we can strive for better. We can take steps to stop someone. Because if a new law stops just one mass shooting in our country, isn't it worth it?

I am a gun owner. I am a tree-hugger. I am a mother. I am an excellent shot at thirty feet. And I believe in gun laws that expect responsibility and diligence on behalf of anyone who purchases a gun.

Opponents would say: guns don't kill people, people kill people. Okay, I'll play that game. Cars don't kill people, drivers kill people. If we applied gun regulations to vehicle regulations, a person could walk onto a car lot and purchase a vehicle without ever having driven a car before. Their first time behind the wheel could be on the way home. In the hands of an inebriated person, we acknowledge that a car becomes a weapon. We have recognized the damage a driver can do to other people and property on the road, so we hold drivers responsible for maintaining tags, registration, and insurance. We have tests to make sure people know the rules of the road, and how to drive a car. The fact that people are against similar regulations for ACTUAL WEAPONS blows my mind.

As a gun owner, I do not feel the slightest bit threatened that someone is going to knock on my door and take them away. I feel very threatened by people who have a complete come-apart over the idea of regulating gun ownership. Sure, buy your guns. Keep your guns. So long as you've competed a set number of hours on a gun range with a licensed instructor, or passed a handling and safety test, purchased minimum liability insurance on the gun, and passed an extensive criminal history and background check. Is it perfect? No. But it's a start. And for the love of our children we have got to start somewhere. Step 1: Admitting there is a problem with gun violence in the United States of America. Can we agree on this? Can we start here?

My daughter just lost two bottom teeth. She sleeps with a purple leopard stuffed animal that she calls Tigey Rose. On a homework assignment for school, she listed one of her three wishes as being tall enough to reach everything she needs in the house. She fills shoe boxes with dirt, leaves, and sticks to make homes for worms and roly-poly bugs. And she was hiding under a desk this morning because we grown-ups can't accept responsibility or the concept of change, or because we get our backs up at the idea of the government encroaching on the second amendment. God, we're sad.

I'm not telling you to take to the streets with signs and a bull-horn (or do, if that's what moves you). But as election day approaches, think about the power we do have as we decide who we will send to represent our interests - our children - in Washington. I'm a believer in stronger gun regulations, but I've never been much of an advocate. Today changed that. I am my child's advocate. I am her voice.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Backstory: my second daughter, Annabelle, was a very, very hard baby. She screamed for the first four months of her life. Literally. If her eyes were open, so was her mouth. Her howls could be used on sound tracks for horror movies - not for the victim, but for whatever was chasing the would-be victim. Straight up otherworldly. At one point, my older daughter asked if we could "put her back inside Mommy until she's done."

Around six months she started to... well, not mellow. I'm not sure what the right word is, but she stopped screaming every red second. She still wasn't easy, but she actually had moments of maybe-this-is-a-human-baby-after-all.

Then she started walking - at around 8 months old. I was teaching horseback riding full time, which I wasn't worried about juggling, because I'd brought my oldest daughter, Marin, with me to lessons starting when she was about a year. She'd play at my feet in the sand, get her energy out, and then pass out on the way home. Win-win.

When I first brought Annabelle to lessons, she would scream most of the way through, and all I could think was: this will be easier/worth it/doable/not hellish once she's mobile. She'd be happier once she could run around the riding ring. Pacified. Quiet. Then she became mobile. And in thirty seconds flat, she'd toddled out of the ring, across a driveway, and into a horse pasture, which was mercifully empty. So I ran after her and scooped her up, and she screamed from my arms for the rest of the lesson.

I tell you all that to tell you this: my husband and I decided on no uncertain terms that we were done, DONE, with having more kids. He'd made an appointment, he'd done the pre-op class of we-just-want-to-make-sure-you-know-what-you're-doing-before-you-do-it. In jest, I quipped that if he knocked me up again in the window between the stupid class and the actual procedure, he would have to buy me a farm. The next morning, I opened the trash can, and then ran to the sink and nearly threw up because of the smell.What the hell was in that trash..... Shit.

I rummaged under the sink until I found an EPT. For some reason, I was still shocked when that second line appeared. Check the box, check the stick. Check the box. Check the stick. This is kid #3, you'd think I'd have this down cold. Anyway, I was letting my husband sleep in, and I decided to keep on letting him sleep, mostly because I wasn't sure what to say, and I needed to sit on the news a minute. Annabelle was ten months old. How was I pregnant with a ten month old? It didn't even seen possible. If I'd had a second EPT, I probably would've peed on that one, too.

Patrick came down the stairs about an hour later. and said: "thanks for letting me sleep in. I feel like a whole new person." I crossed my arms, mad and scared and excited and overwhelmed, and said: "good. because today, we're going to go look at farms."

He was confused. And then he was really confused. And then he got it. And we stared at each other. And neither of us had any idea what to say.

Looking back, I think that's when the ball-o-change started rolling. That's when I realized the life we'd built was a house of cards. It's funny. That tiny pink line was a starting line. I just didn't know it yet. I've heard countless times how the third baby (and beyond) just rolls with it, and is wholly flexible because they have to be. Our third baby set a hundred changes in motion before he was ever born, a hundred changes I didn't see coming, and wouldn't believed if you'd told me, a hundred changes I wouldn't take back for a single second. I promise I'll get to them as I sort them out. It's like untangling knots in a fishing line. There's a stick on one end and a hook on the other, and somehow, in the middle of those, a single, straight thread goes a million directions, and that's life.

This past March, I made a decision to step away from most social media. My world as I knew it was imploding, and my life was teetering on the brink of even bigger changes. Some people find solace in times of turmoil by rallying the troops and reaching out for emotional support. I find solace within. I'm a classic introvert by nature: time alone is how I recharge and process stress. So I went dark.

I heard somewhere that moving, changing jobs, and having a baby are among the most stressful things a person can go through. This spring, I left a job, had baby number three, sold two houses, bought one sight unseen, and moved 2,675 miles (I just googled it) with three kids, two dogs, an aquarium full of fish, a potted plant, and two horses. Even writing that sentence makes me tired all over again.

There are other details in there that make things even more complicated, and some pieces I'm not yet ready or willing to revisit. But I think I'm ready to start taking some of the thoughts out of my head and unpacking them here. I'm not promising it'll be neat and tidy, or that the posts will have any sort of organization. I have three kids, ages five and under, and am solely responsible for the daily chores of a small farm. I'm lucky if I remember to eat, much less string a pretty sentence together. But I'm happy. Really, truly happy. Not every day. Not all the time. (I'm not sure I know anyone who is.) But for the first time in a long time, I love my life.

So I'm going to attempt to start blogging again. Really, honestly blogging. Not because I love my life, but because for a long time, I didn't. I'm going to tell you why I left most social media, and the 360 degrees of impact this decision has had. I'm going to tell you about my good days and about my really shitty ones. I should mention that I'm going to use foul language, not for shock value but because it's how I talk. I'm going to write what's in my head, which means, if I'm being really honest, I'm going to annoy you, because I can be petty, ungrateful, selfish, and short-sighted with the best of them. I often irritate myself, so i can only imagine how I look from an outside perspective. I'm going to talk about my family, my critters, my fears, my chores, my proverbial shadows, the weather, my hopes, my writing (I am actually, slowly working on something new,) my regrets, the whole bag of sugar cookies I just ate... you get the idea.

So, who ever you are, thank you for reading this. Thank you for helping me unpack.

Monday, September 14, 2015

For two days ONLY - September 16th and 17th - all three books in the Moonlit Trilogy will be available for Kindle for $0.99 each!! That's the whole trilogy for less than $3. Then books 1 and 2 (Moonlit and Windswept) will spend a few more days at deeply discounted prices, and Wildwood will stay at $0.99 for at least another week. (Get them here: http://www.amazon.com/Jadie-Jones/e/B00ECVQ9T4) The listings on my author page my not reflect the actual price, but fear not! Each book's kindle listing will show the reduced price!

Want to know why? There are a few film industry insiders interested in taking Tanzy's story to film.
I would love to see what these books "look" like through someone else's eyes. I would do a happy dance to end all happy dances. And as the "film treatment" for Moonlit is being reviewed, we need two things: chatter and sales.

That's where you come in.

I need help spreading the word. I like to give stuff away. It's a beautiful combination.

Prizes up for grabs:
* $50 Amazon Gift Card
* $50 Barnes and Noble Gift Card
* The Moonlit Trilogy in signed paperbacks with a swag pack
* One signed canvas print of a Moonlit Trilogy cover of your choice.
* A page from the original, handwritten first draft of Moonlit, signed and framed. (If this does make it to film, that would be pretty cool to have!)

How you can enter: Use the Rafflecopter form below to enter for a chance to win these prizes! This giveaway begins 9/16/15 and ends 9/23/15. Winners will be notified by 9/25, and have 72 hours to claim their prize before new winners are drawn. No purchase necessary for entry!

Saturday, August 8, 2015

For those of you who have never participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month,) the idea is to write a complete first draft of a novel, or at least 50K words of one, in one month. It is HARD, and, to date, I've never succeeded.

So what does this have to do with Wildwood, book #3 in the Moonlit Trilogy? Well, the draft I submitted to my publisher was 156,000 words, and I knew in my soul that it was the best story I'd ever written. It's my favorite piece of the trilogy. My editor agreed: do not, under any circumstance, touch the plot, she said. And then she said: But I need you to cut 57,000 words. Minimum. Really, it'd be better if you could find 60,000 words to cut.

Sixty. Thousand. Words.

Or, NaNoWriMo in reverse.

When I first sat down to tackle this edit, I thought: I can absolutely do this. No problem. I'm wordy and I know it. I can clean this up in a single pass. So I painstakingly evaluated every word, tightened up sentences, cut an expository paragraph or lines three and four of a description here and there. And at the end of the first pass, I had cut 6,000 words. I had also taken two weeks to do it.

Editing a 75,000 word story like Moonlit and Windswept took every brain cell I had. Once I realized I was essentially editing them BOTH size-wise, I buckled down, glared at my screen, and launched into pass #2.

I started seeing some serious word-loving habits. Like descriptions. Boy-howdy do I love to word-draw. Three paragraphs of artsy, flowery page-decor became a sentence or two bold, direct strokes.

I'm a transition-junkie. I quit cold turkey, cutting their heads off whenever I saw them peek up at the bottom of a paragraph. CHOP CHOP CHOP. And boom, without the transition present, the paragraphs flowed BETTER, because if the writing is tight and the motion is streamline, a transition becomes a speed bump.

Full-body feels. This probably accounted for 25,000 words. And I don't mean the way a "feels" moment pulls at a reader's heart strings. I mean the way every single action pulled at every single possible part of my main character (although hearts, centers, stomachs, guts, middles, and mouths seem to be favorites of mine). I shouldn't tell a reader how my character internally responds to a positive or negative moment because the reader should experience the moment without me telling them how to do it.

And, last and certainly most painful for me, expository paragraphs. I love to sink into a scene and roll around, like a dog on a carpet, feet in the air, tongue out, just *feeling* it. Inviting a reader into a character's head space for a good long time. Like a page. Maybe two. I caught myself skimming these words and sections I was sure I loved, and why? Because sure they were pretty but they didn't affect the story in any way so I didn't need to change them so why look at them.

Wait, what?

If a sentence does not affect the plot or the character, if the plot and the character are exactly the same on the other side of the sentence as they were before it, then what was the point of the sentence? The idea of a story is to keep the action and characters in motion. You know what dogs do after they roll all over the floor? They take a nap.

And there was my other 35,000 words.

Finally, one month, 60,000 cut words later, edits for Wildwood were done. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, and taught me some invaluable lessons about the way I write, and how to make it better.

Wildwood now has a release date - September 22nd, 2015, and one truly amazing cover.

I can't wait to see what y'all think of the conclusion to Tanzy's story, and my new, lean, action-packed story-telling skills.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

I'd like to start this post with a little diddy about how my experience at the Augusta Literary Festival concluded. The festival was drawing to a close. My husband was holding our 4 month old baby with one hand and helping me pack away odds and ends with the other. My 4 year old daughter was helping herself to leftover candy. She looked up at me and said: "Momma, why does one of your earrings have a hole in it and the other one doesn't?" I figured one of the earrings - dangly loopy silvery things - had become hooked on itself some kind of way. I reached up to feel for both. I was wearing two completely different earrings, and had been All. Day. Long. And that, in a nutshell, is what it's like to tour with small children in tow. Hey, at least they were both silver. (Can you spot the difference in the picture at the end of this post?)

A more extended version of events:

We arrived in Augusta on Thursday night. I checked in with the front desk at the hotel and then shuttled my sleeping children from the car to the room using half-ninja-half-mama-grizzly tactics to scare would-be noise away. My four year old slept between my husband and I on a king size bed, some how turning perpendicular, where-upon she began making snow-angels in her sleep.

On Friday I was scheduled to attend a round panel discussion with the other four finalist for the Frank Yerby Award for Fiction. We asked Siri how to get there. Dear Siri sent us to the wrong place five times, after which I spied the little yellow house I saw on the festival website, told my husband to stop the car in the middle of the road, leaped out, and ran to the front door. There was a piece of paper on the door. That's never a good thing, never: congratulations, you found the right place! And this was no exception. The panel had been moved to a different building. I had the name but no map and not the foggiest idea of how to get from here to there.

Then an angel appeared: a woman in her car called out to me (I don't know if I was radiating desperation or just looked really, utterly lost). She was part of the award panel and told me where the discussion had been moved to. I thanked my lucky stars I'd opted to wear boots instead of heels, and ran across a field and three parking lots, arriving at the panel sweaty, but on time.

The panel discussion was freaking amazing. There's really no other way to describe it. We clicked and bantered and dove in and swam around. We challenged each other. We supported each other. I would do it once a week if I could. This is where I first met fellow writers Amanda Kyle Williams, C. Michael Forsyth, and Kimberly Teter. Meeting these people made the entire trip worth it, and the festival hadn't started yet.

Amanda Kyle Williams won the Yerby Award - and she absolutely deserved it. She is witty and razor-sharp. Her book - Don't Talk to Strangers - is book three in her Keye Street series. I'm reading book #1 - The Stranger You Seek - right now, (because I'm one of those OCD types that has to read series books in order even if they're all stand-alone) and it has the most chilling opening I have ever read. Hands down. No contest. Put it on your to-read list right now. Right. Now.

Me, I'm happy to be a finalist, to have earned some bling for the Moonlit cover, to be counted among heavy-hitting company, and to own all three of Amanda's books. Signed. Boom.

While I was at the award ceremony, my husband took our girls to Outback to attempt dinner single-parent style. He was brave, and he went down fighting, but that ship sank hard, fast, and loud. He wound up tossing dinner in to-go boxes and wrangling our tiny circus back to the car as fast as possible. Once I came back, I helped him get both girls asleep, and then ate my dinner perched on the hotel toilet so I wouldn't wake our baby, who bursts to waking at the slightest sound. Proof positive mashed potatoes are the bees knees - no matter what temperature they are or where you are when you eat them. Bonus: they're super quiet to chew.
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At last - Saturday - the actual Literary Festival portion of events. The venue was beautiful, the organization spot-on, and the support was fantastic. Writers, if you have a chance to attend this festival, I highly recommend it. The 2015 group of authors was one of the most interesting, engaging, benevolent group of people I've been a part of. Aren't we a snazzy group?

And then came time to pack up, and my daughter pointed out my earrings, and I was so freaking tired, and still kind of giddy that Amanda Kyle Williams stopped by my table and snagged a piece of chocolate and laughed at my one-liner, that I shrugged and kept packing. At least I have big hair. Earrings are more like a glimmer, an after thought, a peekaboo behind a curtain of brownish. Like I said, at least they were both silver.